organizing

organizing is fucking hard.

there are days where i wake up and i'm thinking, "would life be happier and easier if i had an 8-hour day job?"

to put it simply, no.

work is love made visible ~ kahlil gibran

how do i deny this love? with love comes pain, hardship, and effort. so with organizing comes pain, hardship, and effort. all worth it in the end... i hope.

humor and laughter is extremely important to me.

the end.

ode to New York

To be fair to my other love, New York, here is an ode to my hometown. Don't want my friends thinking I turned my back on NY for LA in my previous post.

As I've mentioned in my other blogs, I was raised in Queens and spent a lot of my time in Downtown Brooklyn and Chinatown. New York raised my sister and me to be pretty tough cookies. Just like they say, "If you can make it here, you can make it anywhere."

I saw a lot growing up in New York. My first fist fight was in the third grade, watched my dad get jumped by five teenagers when I was 7-years old, I thought i was going to die in the 5th grade because these girls wanted to jump me over a stupid rumor, my mom pulled a knife on a customer for stealing from the nail shop, our house was wiped clean by robbers, and much more. I went to four different schools in the span of 3 years from NY to LA. I'd like to blame my gaps on the lack of education continuum.

Nonetheless, there is so much I owe to NY for who I am today.

New York is one of those places where you look down and mind your own business in the train. Gotta be smart where ever you go because you never know what you'll run into - a pick pocketer, someone who might jump you, or steal your purse. But its not all bad! Don't get me wrong. As tough as people may seem to be, New Yorkers do care and will intervene when necessary. We have big mouths and boy will we use it!

I love that NY folks, we keep it real. We'll say it like it is and won't beat around the bush. We've got attitude and will use it when necessary. We're also trained at negotiating deals, its just the nature of everyday hustling in the City.

We grow up learning how to dance on the streets, but also have the best and most premiere dance institutions in the world. And gang tagging isn't territorial like it is in LA. New York still embodies the five elements of hip hop for the most part: MCing, DJing,graffiti, breakdancing, and beatboxing. You'll see it at parties, you'll see it on the streets, you'll see it on the buildings, you'll see it on the trains.

New York.. is... beautiful. Four seasons with spring and fall being my favorite seasons. To witness the fall foliage is breathtaking. I do admit that winters are BRUTAL, especially when you're trying to lead rallies outdoors! Everywhere you turn, you will see something that sweeps you off your feet - whether it be the skyline, the bridges, the struggling everyday working people, the multiculturalism...

Like I said in my last post, multiculturalism is what I love MOST about NY. Flushing, Queens is home to the most amount of languages/dialects spoken in the world (Cantonese, Haka, Korean, Vietnamese, Spanish, Tagalog, Hindi, Gujarati, Urdu, Punjabi, Bangla, French-Creole, Spanish in its various accents, Polish, Croatian, Russian, and much more!). What I love more is that we're forced to live together in a tight-knitted space and we're forced to get along (...for the most part).

I had many opportunities to move back and I never did. I started high school in LA and went back to NYC at least once to twice a year since. I guess I never returned because my family kept me busy and feeling obligated to support them. One day though... one day...

And what's a blog about NY without some Ella and Louie and of course.. Biggie...

Nakia Henry - Love Letter (He Wants Me To Win)

to live and LOVE in LA

I write a lot about deep depressing things, but I (consciously) try really hard to take my social work strengths-based approach to life. These last two or three years, I started to really open up my heart to LA. I am definitely a NYC girl at heart. As my childhood friend, Eddie, would say, "You can take the girl out of the hood, but you can't take the hood out of the girl!" Still, I believe I've acquired a personality that embraces the best of both coasts.

I was raised in Ridgewood, Queens, but spent a lot of my childhood in Downtown Brooklyn at my parents' nail salon. I grew up in a sea of Chinese (Canto, Mandarin, Taiwanese, Fujian, Haka), Koreans, Filipinos, Puerto Ricans, Colombians, Dominicans, Italians, Polish, Haitians, Jamaicans, and West Indians. I love that in my parents' salon I heard Malaysian, Vietnamese, and Cantonese and when I walked downstairs from our salon, I would hear the Haitian purse shopkeeper speak French Creole, walk a few steps and hear a Dominican guy speak Spanish in his Brooklyn accent, and a few more steps and hear the Russian Jewish electronic store owner speak Russian. I loved that about NY, despite my family experiencing some rough times.

When I moved to LA (San Gabriel specifically) from NY, I had a culture shock. It was as though I walked into the motherland - a sea of only Chinese and Vietnamese people. I hated that our ethnic enclaves were so segregated. I hated that I assumed the girls were ditsy and the guys were self-absorbed. I hated that I had to drive everywhere. I hated that we had two seasons: hot and hotter. I hated that everyone was high on vitamin D and the sun and everyone was just so god damn happy all the time.

However, it was these last few years where I branched out and dove into "my community" of organizing where I met the most wonderful people who helped me to fall so madly deeply in love with LA. My friends, who are born and raised in LA, have been there for me through all my darkest years. I love that they stand side-by-side with me in the struggle for a better world... for a better LA.

To address the more specific attributes of LA that I love...

LA, I love that street art is anywhere and everywhere we go. You encourage us to use the left side of our brain and to appreciate the the stories told in your murals and guerrilla art.
LA, I love that I can drive (though quite some time) to different ethnic enclaves and get some of the BEST Chinese, Vietnamese, Korean, Ethiopian, Salvadoran, Cuban.. MEXICAN(!) food.
LA, I love that I can drive 20 minutes to go to the mountains for a hike or 20 minutes to go to the beach or 20 minutes to nightlife.
LA, I love that organizations here actually work together (they don't often in NYC, sadly).
LA, I love that you have some of the best dance choreographers in the country and I love that clown walking and krumping started right here.
LA, I love that your farmers' markets are all year round.
LA, I love that your weather allows me to bike (almost) whenever I want.
LA, I love that there is an extremely rich hystory of struggle and triumphs and reasons why we continue to fight.
LA, I love your communities, my communities. I now embrace our ethnic enclaves because I understand that these are survival mechanisms.

Yet... despite the love I have for you, I do want to tell you why I still hate you.

LA, I hate that you have the largest population of homeless residents in the entire nation and people here won't even think twice when they engage in consumerism.
LA, I hate that your City invests more on a subway for the wealthy who won't even take public transportation anyway and won't invest in fixing your bus system. You have the most poorly designed public transportation system.
LA, I hate that you have soooooo many cars (yes, I'm guilty of this sometimes) and NO bike lanes. My helmet won't save me here!
LA, I hate that our gang territories and violence is generational when the history of the Black Panther Party struggle was to bring about a revolution in LA. Instead, it is now divided into the bloods and crips and hundreds of rival gangs.
LA, I hate that your police force has the highest release of firearms on unarmed citizens and is known for your high incidences of police brutality.
LA, it devastates me that you have one of the worst public education systems in the country.

Nevertheless, I genuinely believe that there is still hope in LA...

And how's a blog about LA not gonna end with some Tupac (sorry my east coast Biggie/Junior Mafia folks)!

Gil Scott-Heron - Comment #1

So let me start of by saying that nearly 36 years after the Japanese, French, American occupation of the motherland, Viet Nam, I am still very conscious of the generational consequences of the war on the kids in Viet Nam as well as those who are now part of the Vietnamese diaspora.

In the name of "freedom" and "democracy" that was claimed to be the reason for over 3 million deaths, I still believe that I should have been born and raised in Viet Nam in the name of peace.

----------




Gil Scott-Heron
Comment 1

Poem here says, Comment #1 uh Comment #2 is dynamite but Comment #1 is the one we decided to use here this evening because it makes a comment if you listen closely on what is now being advertised in East Harlem as the Rainbow Conspiracy a combination of the Students For A Democratic Society, the Black Panthers, and the Young Lords and this is my particular comment about that conspiracy, Comment #1.

The time is in the street you know. Us living as we do upside down. And the new word to have is revolution. People don't even want to hear the preacher spill or spiel because God's whole card has been thoroughly piqued. And America is now blood and tears instead of milk and honey. The youngsters who were programmed to continue fucking up woke up one night digging Paul Revere and Nat Turner as the good guys. America stripped for bed and we had not all yet closed our eyes. The signs of Truth were tattooed across our open ended vagina. We learned to our amazement untold tale of scandal. Two long centuries buried in the musty vault, hosed down daily with a gagging perfume. America was a bastard the illegitimate daughter of the mother country whose legs were then spread around the world and a rapist known as freedom, free doom. Democracy, liberty, and justice were revolutionary code names that preceded the bubbling bubbling bubbling bubbling bubbling in the mother country's crotch and behold a baby girl was born, nurtured by slave holders and whitey racists it grew and grew and grew screwing indiscriminately like mother like daughter everything unplagued by her madame mother. The present mocks us, good Black people with keen memories set fire to the bastards who ask us in a whisper to melt and integrate. Young, very young, teeny bopping revolt on weekend young dig by proxy what a mental ass kicking they receive through institutionalized everything and vomit up slogans to stay out of Vietnam. They seek to hide their relationship with the world's prostitute alienating themselves from everything except dirt and money with long hair, grime, and dope to camo-hide the things that cannot be hidden. They become runaway children to walk the streets downtown with everyday Black people sitting on the curb crying because we know that they will go back home with a clear conscience and a college degree. The irony of it all, of course, is when a pale face SDS motherfucker dares look hurt when I tell him to go find his own revolution. He wonders why I tell him that America's revolution will not be the melting pot but the toilet bowl. He is fighting for legalized smoke, or lower voting age, less lip from his generation gap and fucking in the street. Where is my parallel to that? All I want is a good home and a wife and a children and some food to feed them every night. Back goes pale face to basics. Does Little Orphan Annie have a natural? Do Sluggos kings make him a refugee from Mandingo? What does Webster say about soul? I say you silly chipe motherfucker, your great grandfather tied a ball and chain to my balls and bounced me through a cotton field while I lived in an unflushable toilet bowl and now you want me to help you overthrow what? The only Truth that can be delivered to a four year revolutionary with a whole card i.e. skin is this: fuck up what you can in the name of Piggy Wallace, Dickless Nixon, and Spiro Agnew. Leave brother Cleaver and Brother Malcolm alone please. After all is said and done build a new route to China if they'll have you.

Who will survive in America?
Who will survive in America?
Who will survive in America?
Who will survive in America?

love and anger.

For a very long time, I had only two emotions: love and anger. It was only recent that other emotions that I had as a child resurfaced: happiness, humor, hope, fear (yeah I wasn't even scared of shit in the last few years!), empathy, disappointment, satisfaction, euphoria..etc. It is nice to finally re-feel my heart and soul experience emotions other than love and anger.

Tito Puente, Millie P, and the Poncho Sanchez Orchestra

MILLIE P holding it down with tito puente! pretty dope.

I want to be happy.

For nearly 3 years, I was at every beckon call of my drama-prone parents and their crazy Chinese-Viet schemes. And for those 3 years, I didn't have a life. Now that I finally have a job and my parents no longer have that damn restaurant, I feel... like I don't know what to do with myself. I was so used to being in a crisis mode and unhappy that it is now difficult for me to know what real happiness feels like. I want to be happy, but I don't even remember what that emotion feels like?

Season 4, The Wire

I just got done watching season 4 of The Wire. This season is perhaps the most disturbing show I've ever watched in my life. It bothered me because it had to deal with the lives of youth from the hood - youth who didn't have a chance because their paths were predetermined by our screwed up systems. At the same time, there was hope for some which made me feel slightly better. (I gotta remind myself its a show and I can't take it to heart even though its happening in the real world.)

It made me just think, in the grand scheme of things, taking into account our urban streets and the third world conditions.. it all don't mean shit when our streets are still in chaos. Its all petty.

Agent Orange in Viet Nam

A must watch short doc on the impact of agent orange on the Vietnamese people and the once beautiful lush tropical land.

Watch here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GJxb7CY13uc

Tyrese's new reality show on Koreatown.

With the stereotypical portrayal of Italians in Jersey Shore, I'm doubtful that Tyrese's version of Koreans from Koreatown, LA will be any better. Miles' family has been here since 1958, long before this place was even K-town, so I have a deep love for this place. I know the show won't do any justice for the community, but I hope there won't be an injustice. This struggling community is diverse & resided by Koreans, Bangladeshis, Mexicans, & Central Americans. K-town is more than just bars & clubs on Friday nights! It is a community of immigrants working towards achieving their version of the "American Dream."

There is a traumatic hystory of love, community development, injustice, destruction, and rebuilding. Interestingly, Tyrese is introducing this show this month... April 29 will be the eighteenth year remembrance of the 1992 LA Civil Unrest.

my first book...

no more trauma, more more drama! my first book will be entitled -- three generations to sanity: famine & poverty, the refugee experience, and the 2nd gen bicultural chinese-vietnamese american identity

for those who know me, you'll get it.

more to come!

Was I Not Pretty Before?

Was I Not Pretty Before?

I only want what's the best for you, she says.
I'm willing to spend thousands on you.
You need this, don't you want to be beautiful?
Imagine what you'll look like, she says.
Once you're done, lose fifteen pounds and you'll be perfect.
As I am lying on the bed in the stuffy surgery room located in the midst of the congested
streets of Saigon, I hear the chatter of other women outside.
I can't believe they are all waiting to make drastic changes to themselves.
Open, close, open, close the doctor says as I feel the stitch go across my eye.
My left one, then my right, back to my left and again right.
I held the tears back, not the tears of physical pain, but the tears of mental pain for I have
never thought I would do such a thing.
"Was I not pretty before?"
He finished and I got off the surgery bed with this in mind,
"I promise myself I will never force my child to do something he or she doesn't want to do."
I looked in the mirror and saw the black stitches and dried blood above my eyes.
It was horrid looking let me tell you that.
Two hours after I returned to my aunt's house, my right eye suddenly started bleeding.
It bled for hours before I convinced the doctor on the phone that this was not a usual
situation as he said it was. I am fucking bleeding in the eye for goodness' sakes.
Frightened, I panicked and kept thinking about how I'm going to miss school for the entire
semester because my right eye is bleeding like there's no tomorrow.
"I'm going to be ugly. I hope she feels bad for making me do this. Out of all people to mess
up on, the doctor fucks up on the girl that traveled twelve thousand miles for this shit that
her mother forced her to do. I hope my mom feels bad, I hope she feels horrible for this.
Was I not pretty before," I said relentlessly.
Finally, it's fixed... fortunately, my eye stopped bleeding.
Days after, I removed the stitches and weeks later, I recovered.
My mom kept saying, "You look like the White girl on the magazine, aren't you happy?
All you need now is a nose job and a fifteen pound weight loss."
I hate how she makes it seem like she did me a favor by making me "Europeanize"
my eyes.
Of course, all my aunts, uncles, cousins, and even my father were staring at me,
encouraging me to get a nose job too.
And all I could do was cry internally... cry without shedding any tears, asking myself,
"Was I not pretty before?"

Repressed Feelings

I just got back from a two-day retreat with progressive Viet folks from across California. A lot of issues came up for me from this weekend.

Being ethnic Chinese and mostly culturally Vietnamese has made me one really confused person. Yes, my heritage traces back to Guangzhou, but because of famine my grandparents left for Sài Gòn in the late 1890s/early 1900s. My mom and dad were born and raised in Việt Nam and experienced some harsh conditions.

I guess, this weekend opened up this box I've been holding in my heart that represses my feelings towards my parents. These are feelings of pain, sadness, anger, but also compassion, understanding, and forgiveness. I am supposed to love them unconditionally as this "good Chinese daughter," but I find it so... so immensely hard to give that kind of love. I hear from other people about how much they love their parents. I want to feel that kind of love too.. I want to love them deeply, but I can't seem to find that love anymore.

My parents have put me through a lot over the last few years with their horrible decisions. And I have arrived at a point where I feel like I want to walk away from them, but I can't. There were three moments where I ALMOST left, but couldn't bring myself to leave them. If I left, I wonder if my life would have been healthier and happier. Because of bad decisions they made, it has resulted in the deterioration of my health and well-being. When they were working 7 days/week, I had to clean their house, take care of the dog, do their laundry, AND go out to the restaurant to help with whatever they needed that required by computer and English literacy. But over time, my mom expected more and more from me. I had to fill out thick ass application packets, work on EVERY holiday morning to night, write letters, translate, constantly fix the computer menu ordering program (in THREE different languages - Eng, Viet, and Chinese), outreach/marketing, be their lawyer, be their spokeswoman, cater for parties.. all the meanwhile I was attending graduate school full time and working half time.

My parents are always bragging about how other kids are helping their parents with their family business. That's great, but do those kids have anything else going from them? Do they know what they want to do with their lives? Do they have this bicultural identity that I do where I don't want to run the damn family business and be on call 24/7? I am different from all of them. I am the black sheep anti-capitalism-socially conscious-activist-ruckus raising-non-profit working-compassion for people-person.

We're told that to be good daughters we have to help, but at what point does it become abuse and at what point is it taking advantage of me? My sister would like to disagree and say it's not abuse, but what would she know? She's not the one here doing the work.

It's interesting because at this retreat, we had this activity where we create a timeline of our life and include all significant events that contributed to who we are today. I noticed a lot of the folks started their timeline from when they were born or when their parents fled to the refugee camps. For me, it started before 1978 when they left. It starts with my mean and horrible grandparents who physically and emotionally abused my parents, particularly my mother. Three generations down, I suffer from how my grandmother raised my mom. She beat her incessantly with boards that had nails in them. Grandma waterboarded my mother. Grandma forced my mom to give her all the money she made from working in the factory at age 10. Grandma forced my mom into this unhappy marriage because my dad had some wealth and forced my mom into being his mistress. Grandma forced my mom to do so many more horrible things that I can't even write on this blog because I respect my mom enough to not share it. Grandma made my mom crazy, unstable, violent, aggressive, cold-hearted, and emotionless. Grandma made me suffer through my mom.

I only met the woman once in my life when I was 5 or so and I don't remember that much about her. I just remember when I was in the second grade, I walked out of my room in the morning to find my mom crying on the couch. She said, "Grandma died." She cried silently for 5 minutes and got up and went to work at the nail salon. In hindsight, I wonder... I wonder if those tears were tears of relief for all that grandma put her through. And I really don't want to have the same experience as my mom and cry tears of relief that she's gone. Cry that the pain and misery that she has put me through has finally ended. Of course, what I went through is absolutely NOTHING compared to what my mom endured. Still, it wasn't easy.

It pains me. It pains me so much that tears stream down my cheeks just thinking about all the suffering in my family.

Does it make me the bad Chinese daughter?

I want to be able to blog about how normal my life is and how happy I am. But, with parents like mine, it seems like an unattainable dream.

I watched an independent film called, "The Things We Carry," which is about two biracial Korean American sisters who dealt with their drug-addicted mother in different ways. The older sister took off and the younger sister stayed. And because the younger sister made a "choice" to stay and help, she suffered. In her early 20's, she was already getting persistent ulcers because of the crap she was dealing with at home.

I am not mad at my sister for moving back to NYC because she has done a lot financially for this family and she contributes emotionally what she can. However, I wonder if I am to blame for my own misery? Because, I, the good Asian daughter decided to stay and help. So here I am, a 25-year old woman with persistent ulcers, anxiety issues, and sadly, with a soul of a worn down 80-year old woman (nothing wrong with being 80, just probably exhausted from life).

I want to be able to blog about how life is great and that I look forward to working after grad school. I am more anxious and scared than anything else. I am afraid that I won't be able to financially care for my near-bankrupt parents who adamantly believe that their good Chinese daughter has to take care of them for their rest of their lives.

Do I really owe it to them for raising me? Most Chinese American parents genuinely believe that their children need to take care of them because they raised their children. At what point does it become abuse? At what point is it taking advantage of their children? Never...?? I don't think I'll ever be able to answer these questions. Because my sister, the other good Chinese daughter, will always give money to cover their needs. However, she isn't the one that pours her heart, soul, energy, commitment, brainpower, time, weekends, days off from work/school... to fix all the family problems and to pick up after all the crazy mess (lawsuits, the family business, gambling binges, mental health problems, documents, applications, job searches, managing finances, etc.)

Since my parents have be gone, I have been so happy and so relieved. I thought, finally, I can be at peace. Still, there's an uneasiness knowing that they're going to return and my misery and pain will resurface. Is it sad that I feel this way? Do these feelings make me the bad Chinese daughter?

I read other people's narratives about how their grandparents were such great influences on their parents and how the whole family struggled and now they look up to their grandparents and parents. I do admire my parents for all they have endured. But, I cannot say the same for my grandparents. I am forced to understand that my mom treats me a certain way because my grandmother treated her a certain way. Though my sister doesn't believe it is abuse, to me it is.

I can't believe I am making this blog public, but I guess it's my way of crying for some help.. or for affirmations that what I do for my parents is the right thing to do.

The Adventures of Burger and Me

Burger sure is adventurous.

On Saturday, Burger and I met a dog named ... MENUDO! haha Too cute! I'm going to keep a log of cute/funny dog names. So far it has been Pooper and Menudo!

Burger and Me story

Burger moved in with me and Miles and he is not happy about the cats outside mating very loudly.

Stray Dogs Need Love TOO!

I spend a lot of time driving through Watts and the City of Compton (Compton is not part of LA, it is its own city~) to work with schools, agencies, and Dept. of Children and Family Services. I've seen SO many stray dogs wandering the streets and even some getting hit by cars.

On Wednesday, I was driving down Compton Ave going into a residential area. I saw this big dog that looked REALLY pregnant. I got so worried because I didn't want her to have her babies in the streets. She had a collar around her, but she didn't seem like she was headed back to a "home." I called animal control and followed her for 10 minutes, but it looked shady that I was just sitting in a car in front of random homes. I contemplated whether I should have taken her into my car and brought her to animal control. Its safer there than getting hit by a car. But, then my safety is on the line. Last thing I want is a dog attacking me while I was driving. Anyway, I left her there assuming Animal Control was on there way and went to Compton to pick-up some things from DCFS. I headed back up the same route to see if I would see her again. She wasn't on that street anymore, but as I drove back up Compton Ave. I saw ANOTHER DOG with a collar wandering in the middle of the street.

It was then that I was inspired to start a program/organization to help people keep their dogs. In South LA, people often let their dogs go because they can no longer financially take care of him or her. I want to get a program started to get these families dog food and other dog supplies. They have a right to keep their family member. Dogs can bring joy to poor families. And stray dogs need love too!

This is dedicated to my dog, Burger!

Justice for Melissa Roxas!

http://www.apaforprogress.org/letter-writing-campaign-and-vigil-justice-melissa-roxas


President Obama will be meeting with Philippine President Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo at the White House on July 30, 2009. As I wrote last week, the Philippine government and military must answer for the abduction and torture of Melissa Roxas, a U.S. citizen and humanitarian health worker.

If you're in Los Angeles on Wednesday, July 29, 2009, come to the Vigil for Justice at 6 p.m., at the Philippine Consulate's office -- 3600 Wilshire Blvd. I hope that all you out there who have been going to vigils and supporting justice for Roxana Saberi, Laura Ling, and Euna Lee come to the Vigil for Melissa Roxas to learn more about what happened and to support human rights!

Also, please write, email, fax, or call President Obama to have human rights violations in the Philippines placed on his meeting agenda with President Macapagal-Arroyo, and to demand justice for Melissa Roxas. Here's a sample letter:

The White House
1600 Pennsylvania Avenue NW
Washington, DC 20500

Dear President Obama,

Before you meet with Philippine President Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo at the White House on July 30, I urge you to look into the case of Melissa Roxas, a U.S. citizen and survivor of torture in the Philippines. I urge you to include human rights in the Philippines and Melissa Roxas as an integral portion of your meeting with President Arroyo.

I am deeply concerned for the well-being of U.S. citizen, Melissa Roxas, a survivor of torture. On May 19, 2009, she was abducted while doing community health work in the Philippines. She has spoken out publicly in Los Angeles and is testifying in the Philippines right now about her traumatic experience of being abducted and tortured for almost one week.

With your support, we can move another step closer to demanding justice for Melissa Roxas by way of a criminal investigation, arrest and prosecution of the parties responsible for her abduction and torture.

Unfortunately, Melissa is one of thousands of victims of human right violations in the Philippines. She is among the very few survivors of abduction, and I admire her courage to speak out so that we will know the truth and take a stand for justice.

With your support, we can move another step closer to ensuring that no more US tax-payers’ dollars are being used to enable state-sponsored human rights violations in the Philippines.

During your Inaugural Speech, you said, "To those who cling to power through corruption and deceit and the silencing of dissent, know that you are on the wrong side of history."

Please take a stand for justice and do not hesitate to defend and demand justice for our sister, Melissa, when you meet with President Arroyo.

Sincerely,
Signature
STREET
CITY, STATE, ZIP

--

President Obama’s address:

The White House
1600 Pennsylvania Avenue NW
Washington, DC 20500

To send letter via web and request a response: http://www.whitehouse.gov/CONTACT/

Phone Numbers at the White House

Comments: 202-456-1111
Switchboard: 202-456-1414
FAX: 202-456-2461

Visitors Office: 202-456-2121